I'm Han Solo
by HomeschoolGirl
Summary: I'm Han Solo, she wrote, and he knew she was coming back to him.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so I finished reading _Eleanor and Park_ for the third time yesterday. There has never been a story that I love more. It's just everything, and so of course I had to make this story. Hope you like! Reviews are appreciated.

Warning: this contains some cursing, nothing too crazy. :P

(Not sure if this is a oneshot or a two-parter).

-Homey

**Disclaimer:** Not mine!

Also, copyright HomeschoolGirl 2014. Please don't post anywhere else or use as your own.

* * *

**Park**

The words settled in his ears for the next three days. While he ate his cereal, standing over the kitchen sink as not to drip. _I'm Han Solo_. Or when he was pulling on a t-shirt in his bedroom after Taekwondo, frowning at the smudge of eyeliner he'd left on his dobak. _I'm Han Solo_. He'd been waiting for the phone to ring since getting her postcard, biding his time. He knew she'd freak if he made the first move.

_I'm Han Solo_.

"You so happy," his Mom said over the breakfast table the next morning. She was sitting primly on her chair with one leg tucked up underneath her, so delicate. "I not seen you so happy since you Eleanor left."

Even her name couldn't pull him back to that dark place, not like before. He felt the blooming in his chest, imagined the blood flowing back into his heart. He almost told his Mom about the postcard.

"I guess I decided that there's nothing left to be sad about," He offered around a mouthful of toast.

She pushed the carton orange juice across the table at him. "Good to hear. Now drink. Grandma says there's vitamin-something in them, they good for you."

"Vitamin C," Josh said from his end of the table. "Pass the orange juice."

"Josh! You already had glass. Save some for you brother."

* * *

**Eleanor**

Why she'd written that, she didn't know.

She'd not been in a particularly sentimental or nostalgic mood, either. She'd just sat down at her desk that overlooked the street, imagined Park pulling up to the curb—would he look different, still wear the eyeliner—and she was just ready. She couldn't believe there was no longer any hope.

Her hand found the pencil, and she prepared to write a long, lengthy confessional. She wouldn't even poke fun at either of them; it would be an all-out mushfest. The kind of thing she shuddered at.

Her head had a mind of its own. While she meant to grab the notebook paper, she grabbed the postcard instead. The one he'd sent, blank aside from her Uncle's address scribbled on the line. In pencil. She erased it furiously, and picked off the stamp with a red fingernail. She'd allowed them to grow long. Her friend had painted them for her, a glorious scarlet that unintentionally matched her hair. They'd laughed about it afterward.

_I'm Han Solo_, she wrote, because of course there was nothing else to say but that.

Those words held everything she felt about him, everything she still felt.

They burst to the surface along with a smile.

* * *

**Park**

Cat was in his room, closing the door. She started toward him with an eyebrow raised. The piercing in her lip glinted as she lurched forward and tackled him to the ground, pressing her lips to the place just below his eye.

"My mom doesn't like my door to be shut when girls are in here," He said, but it was wheezy.

"How old are you again, Park?" Her hand teased the back of his head.

"Seventeen."

"Right. Seventeen. I think you can decide whether or not you want your door open for your damn self, don't you?"

"Uh-huh."

She kissed him hard. The lip ring dug into his skin, and he tried not to flinch.

"I really…I want the door open," He fumbled, sitting up. Cat rolled off him, away, groaning in protest.

"God, Puck. You are such a pussy."

The words froze in her throat. He could hear them come to a stop, so she laughed, to show she was kidding. He rocked back on his heels. He opened the door and motioned her out.

"What? Are you kidding?"

"No. I'm not kidding."

She stood up, pulling her wrinkled shirt down. It was Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. He hated Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. He knew Eleanor would, too.

"Fine," She exhaled, pushing her tongue into the corner of her cheek. "I'm sorry."

He stood up, pulling the door back further. She let out a huff and stormed past, down the stairs. He heard his mother call out as she passed—"Hey, Cat, where you going to?" but she ignored her. Just another reason that she was all wrong for Park. Cat was too cool for his mom.

Eleanor wasn't.

"Where Cat go?" His mom asked as Park started down the stairs, looking anxious.

"I don't know." He sank onto the couch.

"You must know. You upset her?"

"No. She's just being herself." He waited a beat, and then clarified, "A bitch."

He wanted for his Mom to correct him—_dirty mouth, go to room_! But instead a relieved sort of smile settled across face and she nodded. "Yes, she a bitch."

Park drew himself up in surprise. His Dad laughed exuberantly from the next room.

"Oh, shut up," His mom said, coloring. "She is."

Park's cheeks lifted even higher than they had upon reading Eleanor's postcard. It felt so good to be purged of Cat, he couldn't even find the words.

* * *

**Eleanor**

It felt wrong to call. No, not after all this time.

She almost chickened out, standing at the threshold of her Uncle's kitchen. He was flipping eggs over the stove while Aunt Sherri cooked bacon. They always had breakfast for Eleanor, and she always ate. She was still the same stubborn size, despite (poorly) running track and eating three times the amount she ever had at the old house. It was okay, though. More and more she was starting to accept herself.

There were girls at school who were mean, but they were the minority, which was new. Almost everyone welcomed Eleanor with open arms. She never said a word about her old life. They didn't know. She was just the cool girl who liked comics and lived with her Uncle.

Not the girl who was afraid. Not the girl who was insecure. Not even the girl who was funny. Only one person really found her funny, ever.

And she didn't belong to him, either.

* * *

**Park**

Everytime the phone rang, he waited for it to come to him. It didn't. A week passed, and then two. He wondered if he should look up Eleanor's Uncle. Maybe she did want him to reach out

But that was ridiculous, he told himself. He knew Eleanor. She wouldn't have sent the postcard if she didn't mean it. He just—he had to be patient.

He hated being patient.

At night, Park would study the postcard in the dark. He imagined her writing it, those hands that were so small, the most defenseless thing about her. Those hands that he loved with all of his soul and mind. The start to everything. The hands that cradled the scarf, that he wrapped around his, that he drew his finger down. Electric hands.

Maybe she wasn't ever going to call him.

* * *

**Eleanor**

"You want to go _back_ to Omaha?" Uncle Geoff asked, in plain disbelief.

Eleanor nodded. Aunt Sherri looked concerned. She pushed over the bacon.

"I do," she said, tearing off a crispy bit at the end.

"Why?"

"There's…somebody," she hedged, trying to keep mum about it. She'd never told anyone in her new life about Park, not even them. When they asked who drove her, she said a friend from school. Tina.

She didn't know why.

"Are you talking about Tina?" Uncle Geoff asked, suddenly remembering. "Because Tina's allowed to come here."

Eleanor shook her head. "No. It's something else."

"Well…" He splayed his hands across the countertop. "Richie. He's still there."

"I won't go near him. He can't—he can't hurt me anymore."

"He _can_, Eleanor," Aunt Sherri said, grabbing her hand. There was such love in her eyes, it took Eleanor's breath away. She never imagined an adult could love her. Her mother had long since only been looking at her with sadness, and they hadn't talked in ages. Not since CPS came and took the kids, all four of them—Ben, Maisie, Mouse, little Richie. Uncle Geoff told Eleanor they split them up, like kitkat bars or peanut m&ms that ended up two together. That was Eleanor's own analogy, anyway.

They went in two groups—Ben and Maisie, Mouse and Little Richie. Nice couples took them, promising to keep them safe until Sabrina got her life back together.

She called Eleanor once, screaming in her ear. "_They took the kids away from me! They took everything. I have nothing, Eleanor, I didn't mean to hurt you. Please tell them it's all right. Tell them you were exaggerating_."

Eleanor hung up. Her mother was long past being in her right mind.

"He can't hurt me. Not really. He won't want to," She continued with confidence. Her chin raised the smallest bit. "I need to do this. And then I'll come back, I promise."

"How long?" Geoff asked, massaging his forehead.

"A week. Two at most," Eleanor said, thinking quickly. If Park didn't hate her, if he let her stay—certainly that would be time enough to work things out. To mend broken fences. Or break them some more.

Geoff and Sherri looked at each other. Finally, he nodded.

"All right, Eleanor. Fourteen days. Including travel. But you get into trouble, you call me."

"Of course." She stood up, pushing her plate away. "I need to go get ready."

"When do you plan to leave?"

She stared at the clock. Her eyes slid shut and she saw his green eyes.

"Five minutes."

* * *

**Park**

When it rang, he was laying on the couch. He tried not to think about the couch, more than anything. If he did, his cheeks would go red, and his parents would ask if he was okay. His Dad in a kind of exasperated manner.

He stood up to get it when he mom yelled from the kitchen that he should. He brushed his hair back and shuffled to the door, turning the handle.

The first thing he saw was the flaming red hair.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello guys!

The feedback was so positive on this, I decided I wanted to do a second installment. I love your reviews! I really appreciate them. :) If you want to leave one, that would be awesome!

Thanks!

-Homey

P.S. Not sure if I'll do anymore, but whaddaya know.

* * *

Eleanor

"Hi," she said, and that was it. Hi.

Granted, she was winded. Like she'd run the whole way here from Minnesota. When, in reality, she'd been hemming and hawing her way up the street to his door for the past hour and a half from the train. It shouldn't have taken so long, really, but she was afraid. So afraid.

His face was a mask, blank, wiped clean.

"Are you going to—I mean, do you speak? Have you gone mute?"

He shook his head, and it was there in that movement that Eleanor knew she was no longer wanted. She backed up a step, almost tripping over her feet, and half-turned away.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, her throat thick. "This was a mistake."

That's what they always said, wasn't it? She thought as she bounded down the last cracked porch steps, onto the street. A car drove by and honked its horn at her when she didn't step out of the way. Her heartbeat was in her ears and she felt like she might throw up. This hurt worse than not speaking. This hurt more than anything ever had before. But she wouldn't turn around. She'd keep going and never say Park Sheridan's—damn it—name again.

"Eleanor." His voice wrapped around her, strong and somehow hesitant. It stopped her in her tracks. She'd almost forgotten the sound of it. "You came back."

Eleanor turned until she could look at him. He was only a few feet away.

"You came back," he repeated, almost an intonation.

She nodded. She'd never been so scared her whole life. He was everything to her, and he was further away in that moment than he'd ever been before. She didn't know where they stood. She hadn't expected this. And now that she'd heard his voice…

God. She was weak in the knees.

Park opened his mouth, then closed it. And, to her utter disbelief, he started to cry. One tear after another. Trailing down his chin, splattering against the ground like iridescent saltwater raindrops.

* * *

Park

His father was right.

I mean, who the hell cried when his girlfriend came back after being incognito for almost a year? Who did something like that? He should be taking her in his arms and kissing her senseless or—or whatever those really manly guys did in action flicks. He knew Taekwondo, for chrissake.

Instead he wiped his eyes and tried to say something, but it came out in a sob. He wanted to die, right then and there. Which was perhaps melodramatic, since Eleanor _had_ just returned. But what if she booked it out of there because he was crying? He really needed to stop. He couldn't stop. The tears just kept coming and coming to the point where it was ridiculous, because he was _happy_.

* * *

Eleanor

She didn't know what to do.

It was nearing dusk, and the street lamps kicked on above their heads, casting Park in an even more golden glow. His skin was so perfect. She wanted to touch it. She longed to smooth her thumbs over his cheeks and wipe away his tears.

"Are you okay?" She asked at last, then cringed. What a stupid question.

He lifted his t-shirt to wipe at his face and managed to bob his head up and down. Eleanor stepped forward.

* * *

Park

She was getting closer and closer. He took a jagged breath and then decided that if he couldn't speak, maybe he could hold her. So he did. He lurched forward and wrapped his arms around her. His hands almost didn't meet each other, until they did, at the narrowest part of her waist. Her hands touched down on his shoulders, and for a second he feared she was going to push him away. Until instead she buried her head in his neck and her arms came all the way around him from behind.

"I thought you were never coming back."

* * *

Eleanor

Eyeliner was smeared all over his face from all the crying. She wiped it away with the softest part of her palm and let his lashes brush against her fingers.

"Me either."

* * *

Park

He didn't want to share her. Not yet. So he pointed her toward his grandparent's RV and told her he'd be back at night. When he walked inside, it took everything in him not to scream it to everybody. _Eleanor's back. My Eleanor is back. _

"Where you been?" His mother chastened from the kitchen, armed with a wooden spoon.

"I took a walk," he lied.

She studied his face. "You crying?"

"No. It was raining," he lied, on the off chance she was too preoccupied to check this for herself.

The spoon came down on his shoulder in a gentle _thwack_. "I been calling you fo' dinner! Dumb boy sometimes, I swear."

Josh barked a laugh from the kitchen. Park made sure to give him a good thump on the back of his head on the way to his chair. He pulled it out and sat down, spooning some rosemary potatoes onto his plate, taking a rack of lamb.

"You really do look like you've been crying," his dad noted, leaning across the table. Puck shrunk into himself.

"It was raining."

"Your eyes are all red and swollen." His dad paused. "You been smoking dope?"

"_Jamie_!" Park's mother gasped.

"What? Mindy, it's a relevant question."

"My boy would never do such a thing!"

"I don't know, Mom, 'cause—"

"Josh!" The spoon lashed over at him, too. "Shut dirty mouth! All of you!"

"Dope's not a dirty word, Mindy."

"Is in my home! In my home!" She turned her glare to Park. "You never do drugs in my home, you hear?"

He raised his arms. "S'okay, Mom. I wasn't. I never have."

"Well, good." She looked like she believed him which was good because he was, afterall, telling the truth.

The conversation turned to the day's events. Park tried to make it look like he was eating.

_Eleanor's back. My Eleanor is back._

* * *

Eleanor

It was warm, inside the RV. All the day's sun had seeped in and filled it up, almost like it had anticipated her arrival. She sat at the little booth table and counted the time until Park retured on her fingers.

* * *

Park

Now, because of his parent's suspicions, he had to wait. He went upstairs and showered until his brother banged on the door to get in and brushed his teeth. Then he stood in a room, waist wrapped in a towel, and started at himself in the mirror. He wanted to look like he'd changed. Eleanor was back. Shouldn't he be an entirely different person? But no, he hadn't grow six inches and his eyes weren't glowing. In fact, he looked exhausted.

He stepped into his sweatpants and a shirt, then sat on the bed to wait. Nine o'clock ticked by. Ten. Eleven. At eleven-thirty, he started plucking his comic books from his collection. All the new _Watchmen_. He stuck them in a tote bag that had Madonna on it (he thought Eleanor would appreciate that) and grabbed the pillow off his bed. A blanket, too, in case she got cold. The latest _Kiss Me I'm Irish_ shirt that was now three sizes too big, so it would probably fit Eleanor brilliantly. And then—as he crept down the stairs and into the kitchen—food. She must be starving.

* * *

Eleanor

She was jolted awake by the sound of the screen door turning. Puck stepped inside, listing to the side from the weight of a heavy bag on his shoulder. Her heart stuttered a bit when she saw him.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi," he whispered back.

Everything was quiet.

She pointed to the bag on his shoulder. "That's horrific."

His face burst into a smile. It was so beautiful. Eleanor's throat constricted.

"I knew you would like it."

"Uh, did I say I did?"

And then he deposited the contents of the bag on the table, and they spilled across, and it was full of everything Eleanor had onced loved and realized, then, that she still did.

* * *

Park

Eleanor was so beautiful, picking through the items he'd chosen for her, the moonlight illuminating her red hair. He finally sat down and watched her as she thumbed through the Watchmen.

"This one was good," she noted. Park wrinkled his forehead.

"How do you know?"

"I read all of them."

"You did?"

"Duh. Of course. How could I not?"

"So—what did you think about—"

"Oh my God. Awful."

"I know." He didn't even have to point out what instance he was talking about, because she just knew. It was such a wonderful feeling for Park. When he'd talked to Cat, he always had to make a point of explaining what he meant before she could elaborate on it, and it usually didn't make sense.

"I had a girlfriend," he blurted then, because he was a giant idiot.

"Had?" Eleanor hardly seemed phased. But he saw her hands were shaking a little.

He reached forward and grabbed on. "Yeah. She was terrible. She liked Patrick Swayze."

"Oh, God." Eleanor wrinkled her nose, looking horrifed. Then she looked down at his hand against hers. She smiled to herself. He knew she thought she couldn't see it.

"Did you?" He asked, feeling a rock in the pit of his stomach.

"Hm?"

"Did you have a boyfriend?"

"Oh—no. No."

"Really?"

"Yeah. No."

"Huh." He was relieved, but this would be rude to admit.

"I mean—Park, come on."

"What?"

"I just, like, no. That wouldn't happen. Only with you."

He grinned. "Only with me, huh?"

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Smiling at me. It's disarming."

"I like being disarming."

"It's…unnerving."

"I like being—"

"Agh, don't say unnerving."

"Why?"

"Because it's—unnerving."

"Okay then. Can I ask you something?"

"If it's a worthy something."

"Why didn't you keep your promise?"

He asked it because he needed to know.

She looked up. Her eyes had a film of wetness over it, but she didn't allow it to leak. Figured.

"Well?" He prompted.

* * *

Eleanor

"I didn't want it to end," she confessed, so softly the words were an exhale. They almost didn't take shape.

But Park heard, in the quiet night. His hand found her knee in the dark RV.

"What end?"

"The end of us."

"There doesn't have to be an end."

"But there will be if any one of us ever moves on."

"It was only ever you, Eleanor." His finger traced lazy, trepid circles on her thigh. She tucked her leg up underneath it.

"But what if it isn't?"

He broke out his trance at her words. "Huh?"

"What if you're walking down the street one day, and you see this girl—"

"See a girl? You're not making—"

"Let me _finish_, Park," she asked, and he smiled at the sound of his name off her tongue. It made it hard for her to finish. But she did, because this was it. This was what had kept her from reading his letters, from writing, from calling, from keeping a promise.

"Go ahead," he allowed in an amused way, almost as if she weren't serious.

She grabbed his hand and lifted it away from her, settling it in his lap, to show him he was. He stilled, and his smile lessened a little at the corners.

"What if you're walking down the street," she said quietly, hardly breathing, "and you see a this girl and you're like—that's it. That's her. That's who I'm going to spend my life with."

His eyes narrowed in skepticism. "What makes you think it would be like that?"

"Like what?"

"That I'd…just…fall."

"Fall?"

"Right then and there."

"For her?"

"Yeah."

"Because. You just know. It's like…" She swallowed a bit, embarrassed to even say the word. "Soulmates."

He considered this a moment, in that quiet way that drove Eleanor insane in the best and worst ways. Her heart ached for him. Her body did too—for his arms to wrap around her, for him to breathe kisses down her neck. She felt a flush coming on at the thought of it, and tightened the strings of her sweatshirt to hide it.

"The only problem with that was," he said at last, measured, "is that I would have to be the type of guy who falls in love at first sight. And I'm not."

"You don't know. Until you do."

"But I—Eleanor." He looked at her, turned the earnestness of his green eyes on her. And she saw in them that he was as sincere as somebody who didn't know any different could be.

A thing passed between them. An energy. A heat. It was so insistent up her spine that she shivered, and he leaned forward to press a palm to the center of her chest.

"You're her," he declared.

* * *

Park

He kissed her.

* * *

Eleanor

He tasted like the honey of his skin, sweet and a little bitter in places. Her hands came up to cup the back of his head. It was shaved, she noted with surprise, left long on the top to come down and tease his forehead. Somehow, this made him even better. This little gift, right here for her to find. She wondered fleetingly what else was new.

* * *

Park

She tasted like marigolds, whatever those tasted like. He didn't know. But the flavor popped into his head and it seemed so right, he just decided—that was it. Marigolds and black coffee. Eleanor was the type of girl who'd turn her nose up at sugar in her coffee and drink it piping hot, so much so that it would burn her upper lip. Mm. Lips. She had those, and beautiful ones, too—full soft.

It was so surreal to be kissing her after this time, but so natural. Like, his body just remembered what it was to come alive. It was almost as if he'd been dormant, just waiting—waiting, and he never even thought she was coming. Or he guessed maybe he had, because that was what the waiting implied.

* * *

Eleanor

It was perfect. It was a dream. It was—

Salty.

Of course Eleanor had to ruin the romance of the moment by pulling away then and demanding, "what've you been eating?"

"Cheetos," Park admitted rather sheepishly, and leaned forward to bite the tips of her hair.

Under most circumstances, that would have stung. I mean, a fat redhead and cheetos and hair-biting. The correlation was there, plain as day. But it was Park, and with her, he got sloppy. He did things he normally wouldn't do. So Eleanor just—she smiled. And she maybe kind of bit the jagged edges of his hair, too, just to see what it tasted like. And—

Oh. Ack. Ivory.

* * *

Park

It was the best kiss of his whole life. It was so good, he knew he could never leave her again. And if she tried, well, he'd be damned if he let her.

She wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

Eleanor

She knew then that she wasn't going anywhere.


End file.
